Keep Your Friends Close
by AngelRays95
Summary: He turned to Q for help, and now it may very well have put his only friend's life in mortal danger. Bond must venture deep into the heart of Moscow to save him, but will he be able to put his feelings aside long enough to keep a clear head? And when it comes down to it, will he choose his friend's life or the guaranteed security of the nation?
1. Chapter 1

The rain was hammering hard against the high, arched windows of his rather expensive London apartment as Q boiled the kettle and went to sit down on the couch. Crossing his legs underneath him and resting his laptop on his knees, he tried to concentrate on encrypting a particularly high-risk document sent to him earlier that evening by M, but the whistling of the kettle and the heavy drone of the raindrops made it impossible to think clearly. He was exhausted, though his stubborn nature would never allow himself to admit it. He had been awake for almost 48 hours now, having been at the office for the past two days working on the most difficult case he had ever seen. It had involved a Russian hacker, a team of British special operatives vanishing into thin air in Moscow, and Bond killing a civilian while attempting to track down a rogue agent.

They hadn't heard from him since. And while he didn't want to worry about 007, the thought of him drowning his sorrows somewhere and trying to forget the fact he had murdered an innocent bystander continued to weigh heavily on his mind.

He forced the thought from his already throbbing head and slammed his laptop shut, knowing he would never get to finish the file tonight. He shuffled back into the kitchen, poured himself some earl grey, and dimmed the lights in the living-room. He watched TV for about an hour, sipping absent-mindedly at the steaming mug cupped in his permanently freezing hands, and glancing every now and then at the rain still cascading down the glass panes. He could see the orange glow of a street lamp outside, making the raindrops glow as if they were on fire, and clambered up from the couch to shut the thick curtains. It was only then that he saw the figure, drenched and unmoving beneath the harsh glare of the lamp on the opposite side of the street, coat collar turned up against the downpour and his head tilted downwards, obscuring his face.

And yet, even in the pitch black, even with the heavy rain, Q could still make out that stiff, muscular frame, the broad planes of his shoulders, the blonde hair now plastered to his skull. Bond had returned, and had surprisingly chosen him as a refuge point. He almost smiled, before hurrying through to the entrance hallway and opening the door.

He squinted out into the darkness and eventually caught a glimpse of the agent sidling casually towards him, hands pushed into his coat pockets and his eyes never making contact with Q's inquisitive stare.

"Do you know what time it is?" he asked, stepping aside as Bond entered without a word, creating a puddle on the tiled floor. Q watched as he removed his soaking coat and hung out on the coatstand before marching through into the living-room. He was suddenly very conscious of the fact that he was in his pajamas – a plain blue t-shirt and stripy yellow and white bottoms – and wondered whether he should go and change before deciding against it. Bond probably didn't care what he looked like, he was most likely wanting a favour, which wouldn't require a different outift. He still remembered the first time they had met, when Q had, rather confidently, told him that he could do more damage sitting at his laptop in his pajamas than Bond could manage in a year. He was still surprised at how self-assured he had been back then. Three years on, and the job had managed to wear him down. He could feel the bags under his eyes, the ache in his back, the constant drumming in his head. He felt old beyond his years, and there was always the terrifying possibility that he wouldn't even make it to 30. Fear and the constant waiting for something awful to happen had aged him more than he could possibly have imagined, and his own appearance was mirrored in every colleague he worked with, from the girl who made coffee right the way up to M himself. They were all just waiting for the day when their luck would run out, and knew it was only a matter of time before each of them was picked off one by one.

Q shivered, closed the door hurriedly and followed Bond through into the living-room. His hair was dripping, and the droplets of water which ran down his cheeks almost looked like tear tracks.

"Has M been in contact?" Q asked, picking up his tea again to try and warm him after the bitingly cold draught which had greeted him when he had opened the front door.

Bond glanced upwards, those icy blue eyes rooting him to the spot. "No. We're... not on speaking terms at the moment."

_That's putting it mildly_, he thought to himself but didn't dare say it aloud. He could see how vulnerable Bond was, and knew one misplaced word could send him straight over the edge, and he was perilously close as it was.

"Tea?"

"No."

"I don't have anything stronger, I'm afraid."

"I don't want a drink."

Q sighed and sat down on the arm of the couch, watching as Bond shifted from foot to foot, evidently deliberating with himself on what to say.

"You need something, I take it?" he probed, and Bond nodded, looking him straight in the eye for a moment before returning his gaze to the floor.

"I thought disappearing was the best thing to do, but I've just made things worse. And now the net's almost closed in, and I have no one left to turn to. You're my only hope."

The words came out in an almost whisper, pleading with him. It winded him for a moment before he regained composure and stood up.

"Tell me what I need to do," he said immediately, the sheer exhaustion lifting slightly as he found strength from some unknown source.

Bond stepped closer to him, leaned in, and then stretched across to take the laptop from the couch. Q kept his eyes trained on his tea.

"I need you to hack into Viktor Langstrums personal file. It's locked, even to me, and I know you can get into it. I also need his bank details, his location, and his plans for the next few weeks. And I also need any associates currently living here, in London... Actually, any associates living in the UK. I don't know how far this has gone – I'm only just beginning to piece everything together now."

"Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

"No," Bond said automatically, coming to sit down opposite him, his hands clasped together tightly on his lap. "You don't need to know. Just get me the files and then I'll be on my way."

Q bit back the reply he wanted to give, and forced himself to continue cracking the series of codes he had helped to design, eventually breaking through the final encryption and logging into M's personal "vault" where he kept all the top security files. Viktor Langstrums was hidden right at the back, behind yet another series of passwords, though these were ridiculously easy to break, and he made a mental note to increase the security once he was back in the office.

"Do you want a hard copy or just send them to you?" Q asked matter-of-factly, trying not to feel as though Bond was isolating him from this evidently off-radar mission, but feeling rejected nonetheless.

"Which is easier to get rid of?"

"Hard copy, every time. Sometimes the old ways really are the best."

Bond smiled sadly at this, but Q decided not to ask for a more detailed response. He was tired of being ignored or shunned every time he tried to get near the 00 agent, and he was desperate to get to bed.

"The printer's upstairs. Don't go snooping – I know what you spies are like," he said acerbically, his eyes trailing Bond as he gave him a grateful nod and rushed upstairs. Two seconds later he heard the thud of footsteps coming back down, and saw him pulling on his coat.

"That's it, then? That's all?"

"Would there be anything else?" Bond replied, stuffing the filed into his inside suit pocket and buttoning up his grey, wool coat.

Q shrugged. "I'm your Quartermaster, which means I do have a level of responsibility for your safety. Do you have a gun, for example?"

Bond proceeded to pull out two hand-held guns and the knife tucked into his belt. "I'm all set."

"Fine. You better get off then."

"Are you angry at me?"

"Why would I be?"

Bond raised an eyebrow at Q's sharp tone before grinning broadly. The smile didn't even come close to touching those sad, blue eyes of his. "I have no idea – just the impression I got."

"Then you can't be very good at reading people. Go. I need to get some sleep and you obviously have very important work to be getting on with."

"So you are angry?"

Q growled quietly and folded his arms across his chest. "I'm not angry – I'm tired. And I don't appreciate having to keep hiding things from people in order to protect you."

"You're the one making a fuss about my protection! I'm quite capable of doing this alone!" Bond exclaimed, his hand now on the door handle.

"I'm _concerned_, Bond, as well I should be. You're not in the right frame of mind to be going off-road again, especially when you really do have no back-ups this time. Whatever is going on, it's far more dangerous than anything you've ever been involved with before. I can see you're scared, and that terrifies me because if you're afraid then there's no hope for the rest of us," he replied truthfully.

"I'm not scared, I'm just on edge. Viktor Langstrum is-"

"I don't want to know!" Q interjected, grabbing the door handle himself and yanking it open. "Do what you have to do – you will anyway, with or without my permission. Just make sure that if you get into trouble, you come back. Better admitting defeat and risking complete humiliation than returning to Britain in a coffin. I know which I'd prefer."

"That's because you've never been on the field – there's very little chance of you ever being killed."

"This game is dangerous for us all – you might like playing with fire, 007, but sooner or later we're all going to get burnt."

He regarded Q for a moment before slipping outside into the darkness and melting into the shadows.

He stood in the doorway for a good few minutes afterwards, watching the rain continuing to pelt down onto the cobbled street and hoping against all hope that his secret agent would return safely, and soon. Because whatever was out there for waiting for him, it didn't sound friendly, and Bond needed all the friends he could get at the moment.

Q closed the door tightly and shuffled back through to the living-room where his tea had gone stone cold in his absence. He went to boil the kettle again before thinking better of it, and decided to go upstairs. He shuddered as he felt a cold draft washing over him, and realised too late that the front door was open again, and a new dark figure was waiting to greet him this time...


	2. Chapter 2

The trail had gone cold. Even with the files and the knowledge he had previously acquired, Bond had still managed to come to a dead end. Defeat seemed the obvious decision - he could turn back right now and know that no one would judge him, or at least not to his face. But he wanted to prove them wrong so badly – to show everyone that he only needed to rely on himself to get the job done. After all, he had completed missions independently before, albeit not on this level, and he was certain he could do it again.

He did wish, however, that he had Q to back him up. That constant, familiar one-way conversation streaming into his right ear had become a sort of safety-net for him, a solitary comfort in the midst of all this chaos and suspicion. He could rely on Q one hundred percent, he was sure of it, unlike the rest of those double-crossers who called themselves Her Majesty's Secret Service.

He was of an age now that he could no longer be considered to be keeping up with the latest gadgets, nor did he hold with the most recent fighting techniques. He knew how to kill and how to manipulate, and more importantly, how to talk himself out of a tricky situation, and that's all he needed. That and a gun. And a man he could trust.

Crossing the snow-dappled street and turning into yet another dark alley, he pulled the knife from his belt and slipped it up his coat sleeve, ready to kill when required. Moscow was dangerous at the best of times, but the government had been growing increasingly uneasy since this new terror threat had been unearthed right in the capital two months ago. Bond knew it was only a matter of time before Russia converted back to its cold-war past, and dragged Britain back with it. He had seen enough of the damage, met enough scarred and broken agents to know that that was not territory anyone wished to relive, and he was determined to get to the root of the problem as fast as he could. But without intel, he was finding it increasingly difficult to make any kind of headway whatsoever.

Again, he wondered about Q, about what he was doing at that precise moment. Probably hacking into communication lines or security systems, maybe even tracking Bond himself. He smiled, turned his head slightly almost as though he expected to see a camera watching him, and then laughed at himself for being so paranoid and vain. Then again, those were a spies main attributes: vanity came with the job – being a double-o carried with it a sense of prestige which couldn't be eradicated no matter how many bullets you took or snide remarks you received – and paranoia began the minute you went out onto the field. Everyone is a threat, everyone is dangerous, and everyone is out there to kill you. He remembered when M, his M, had told him that. He had been a twenty-something know-it-all who believed he was invincible, and she had given him the best piece of advice he had ever received, then or since. Suspect everyone, Bond, because sooner or later they will all stab you in the back.

"Dog eat dog," he muttered to himself as he hurried down the darkening alleyway and out onto the other side, quickly avoiding a speeding car as it came hurtling round the corner and disappeared. He shivered, the cold wind biting his exposed neck, and began his short journey towards the small bookshop at the end of the street. He had received a message earlier that morning to say that Shamrock, or M as was his proper title, had made contact. He knew it would only be a matter of time considering Q would have had to have told him everything. He didn't blame him, though he still felt somewhat betrayed nevertheless. Q was _his _Quartermaster, responsible for _his _protection and safety out on the field, and who knew if this new M could really be trusted. Saying that, he had been in the job three years now, so he could hardly be described as new any more. M was a fully-fledged leader, underestimated by everyone including Bond, and he seemed to take it on the chin with quiet resilience. Bond both hated and admired him for that, but he would never like him, and certainly never trust him.

The bell jangled above his head as he entered the shadowy, dusty bookshop, and it was only plunged into further darkness when the door swung shut with a heavy thud. Bond cleared his throat in an attempt to gain attention, but the place was deserted. He squeezed past a shoulder-high pile of leather-bound and rather decrepit looking books and made his way through to the back of the shop, where he could hear the faint crackle of a fire. Through a side door, he was met with the sight of an old man slumped in an armchair in front of a slowly dying stove, his purple feet bare and his eyes closed. Bond gripped the knife tighter through his sleeve, ever alert to any unfamiliar sound. He stretched out his other hand and gently prodded the man's shoulder, extracting a quiet snuffle and then a snort from the older gentleman. His grey eyes fluttered open, squinted at the stranger before him, and then gave a small, light-hearted chuckle.

"I knew it would be today. The leaves told me a dark man will come with the snow, and here you are," he said softly, pulling himself upright with a speed which belied his years.

Bond moved to the side to make room for him to pass, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of the back of his neck, a sparrow inked into the creases of his pale skin. This man was evidently a true friend of Britain, and Bond was surprised the terror cell hadn't gotten to him by now and silenced whatever knowledge he had on both old and new Russia.

"'I received a message-"

"Hush," the man interjected, raising a hand to Bond to silence him. "I know why you are here, so you can save the dramatics for someone with more time and patience than I."

Bond had no option but to smile at this, the skin around his eyes creasing ever so slightly and a hollow chuckle emanating from deep within his chest. He liked this man, he liked his abruptness and his soft-spoken voice, and most importantly, he liked the fact he seemed to be defying his age physically while still maintaining that old-school appearance which he recognised so well and loved so much. He was the sort of man Bond had always hoped he would become, the sort of man his father had been, and the sort of man which both inspired and terrified him at the same time, because he showed Bond the future he desired while reminding him of the fact he would never be lucky enough to get it.

"What does Shamrock want?" Bond asked as he followed the old man through to the front of the shop, where he crouched down behind the cumbersome, oak desk to the left of the door and pulled out a small, wrapped parcel. Though he had no idea what it contained, Bond still felt nauseous at the sight of it.

"This was given to me for safe-keeping yesterday. It's addressed to you, from M. Nice man, if a bit..."

"Smarmy?" Bond suggested and received a wry smile in response before the mood changed drastically as their eyes were drawn back to the parcel. The two shared an unspoken moment of apprehension before Bond ripped open the packaging and revealed the blue silk box inside.

"A gift?" the man ventured, but Bond knew instinctively that this was no present. It was a message, pure and simple.

With a steady hand, he turned the box over once, twice, three times, before deciding the only thing he could do was open it. He prised the soft, silky lid from the bottom and gazed numbly at its contents. A silver sparrow brooch perched in the folds of cushioned silk inside, enveloping the sparkling little bird. A sparrow. He couldn't have been more disappointed if he'd tried.

His eyes flicked across to the old man for a second, but it was enough. The man had pulled a gun, a shot was fired, bouncing off one of the bookshelves, and Bond immediately ducked behind the piles of books and pieces of parchment stacked everywhere. He pulled the knife from inside his sleeve and the hand-gun from his inside coat pocket, and slowly peered round the side of a rather precarious looking bookshelf. Another shot, another near miss, and suddenly his blood began to boil. A sparrow – the mark of a man completely loyal to the United Kingdom, and he had turned out to be a two-faced traitor who had smiled and joked with him as easily as if they had been old friends. He should have realised the Russian terror cell would never have left this man alone for no reason. How long had he been working for the other side? When had he began to question his loyalty? Had he even been loyal to Britain to begin with?

These questions sped through his mind at lightning speed, and in a risky move which could very well kill him, Bond decided to reveal himself and take the fatal shot he had made a thousand times. There was no time for a slow, drawn-out kill, though such a fate would have been exacting punishment for the hundreds of British people this Russian spy had evidently betrayed, and with some resignation, Bond slipped the knife back into his pocket so his left hand was free. Grasping a thick, leather book in one hand and his gun in the other, 007 braced himself and then spun out from his hiding place and instantly squeezed the trigger. At that same moment, his other arm was pulled back as a bullet embedded itself in the hard cover of the book, and it dropped to the floor with a smack which sent a cloud of dust curling upwards towards the ceiling like smoke. Bond's ice blue eyes glanced over to where the old man now lay dead, a bullet firmly lodged between his eyes, and put his gun back into his coat. There was no victory in such a death, no sense of satisfaction which he had frequently felt in his earlier kills. There wasn't even a post-rush of adrenaline to take the edge of his bitterness this time, only a sense of regret that he had been fooled by such an easy façade.

The parcel had been discarded somewhere in the chaos, and when he went to retrieve it, he noticed a minuscule note attached to the needle of the brooch, written in code which he decrypted immediately.

_Sparrow a fake. Glasses have been stolen. Retrieve immediately – S._

The first part Bond had already guessed, so he ripped it apart from the rest of the code and swallowed it quickly. _Glasses have been stolen._ Bond read it and re-read it, trying to imagine what on earth it could mean. A code inside a code meant something had gone seriously wrong, something no one could know about, but what? What could glasses possibly be referring to?

And then it hit him. He exhaled sharply, read the note again just to make sure, and then crumpled up the paper and swallowed it as well.

Glasses. There was only one person Bond could think of who was close enough to him to make this code a personal message. The one person to whom glasses was a key signature. Glasses. It sprung to mind intelligence, a sharpness of mind and wit, a sense of superior intellect above all others. Some might even go as far as to say glasses, when worn, gave the appearance of a genius, a master of knowledge. And there was only one man who fitted that description.

Q.

~oOo~

His eyes felt strange, as though they were fizzing behind his heavy lids. It was a tingling sensation, not exactly agonising, but certainly unfamiliar and quite uncomfortable. Then came the stiffness in his limbs, particularly his arms which seemed to be pulled back at rather an awkward angle and bound too tightly with metal wire. And finally the sickening metallic odour which enveloped his sense of smell and made him gag. It was the smell of sweat and oil and blood, and he almost wretched at the stench of it.

As his eyes began to open, curious as to his evidently new surroundings, he was suddenly met with a pain which blinded him and shut down his other senses completely. He gasped aloud as the tingling feeling he had previously experienced turned into a sharp burning and then increased to a searing, white-hot fire which seemed to be soaking ever deeper into his eyeballs. His mouth opened in a silent scream and his head jerked back, the muscles in his face twitching considerably as his body attempted to stop the agony he was being put through. A pitying whimper escaped his gaping mouth, and from somewhere behind him he heard a low chuckle echo down the room to meet him. He writhed in the wooden seat he now realised he was sitting on, but his bound hands prevented him from moving very much, and his scrawny arms did little to help him escape his prison.

The agony only intensified as one by one the lights were turned on, glaring down on him and burning into his eyes even more. He let out another cry, this time louder and more solid than his first. He could feel the prickling heat scorching across every inch of his eyes, burrowing itself deeper and deeper, burning its way through layer after layer until he could almost feel the fierce heat reach his brain. His mind was blank, unable to come up with any kind of solution and subsequently going into some kind of mental shock to deal with the trauma he was still enduring.

"Stop," he managed to spit out, but it was all he could muster before the pain became too much and his head jerked again, his eyelids fluttering relentlessly in an attempt to close, but unable to for the sheer pain he was suffering under. He let out a tortured scream which resonated down the long, narrow room, and the only response was a tapping of shoes as they made their way towards him. He battled with the wire now digging into his flesh, cutting his wrists severely the more he struggled to get free. He knew he had to defend himself, but with his eyes now immobilised and his arms tied behind his back, he was left open to any and every attack possible. They could kill him and he would have no way of stopping them or even knowing when it was going to happen.

He bit down on his bottom lip, his whole body now trembling from fear, and felt his heart begin to slow a little as he accepted the inevitable. He was going to die. Perhaps not immediately, perhaps not even today, but very soon, they would kill him, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. With this in mind, he stopped twisting in his seat and finally went still, goosebumps peppering his bare arms where fear and the cold merged. He sensed another's presence beside him, moving in closer and closer until they came to a stop behind him. He tried not to flinch when a bony hand made contact with his shoulder, gripping hard and long nails digging into the dip between his shoulder and collar bone.

"I can see why he liked you," came a silky smooth voice, a woman's voice, whispered into his ear. He shivered, tilted his head away from the dry lips which had brushed against his ear, and pressed his lips together to stop from yelling again as his eyes continued to burn. "He always did have a weakness for dark-haired beauties."

Q ignored the implied reference and focused on breathing in and out slowly, reminding himself that whatever was going to happen would happen with or without him panicking. His heart steadied, his breathing slowed, and finally his shoulders sagged as he calmed his body. He was surprised at how easily he had been able to achieve it, considering most Britons couldn't manage true calm without a cup of tea or two.

"I am going to have so much fun with you," she hissed slowly, her lips still mere inches from his ear. "He might not even recognise you by the time I'm finished. Let's hope he hurries up, or he might not have anything left to save..."

It was the last thing he heard before the pain in his eyes was overshadowed by the firm prick of a needle into the back of his neck and the whole world exploded in fire and ice.


	3. Chapter 3

He could hear singing. The voice was high and sweet and seemed to crackle occasionally, like a voice battling against the needle on a gramophone. And through it all he could see a shadow, many shadows merging into one, a tall and muscular frame with broad shoulders swaying in the wind. His eyelids hung low over burnt eyes, and his head lolled from one side to the other, too exhausted to stay upright. He tried to stretch out a hand to pull the man closer, desperate to feel skin on skin rather than the cold, clinical atmosphere he had been subjected to for hours now, but his mind couldn't seem to turn thought into action. His brows furrowed in confusion, he tried again to reach across, and again found his body motionless to his command.

"James," he mumbled, though his voice didn't sound like his own, and the word seemed foreign on his tongue. He should have called him Bond or 007, and yet the man he was pleading to now was more a friend than a colleague – he was no longer his Quartermaster, but a helpless victim who needed rescuing.

"Please..." he whispered, his eyes now growing more accustomed to the darkness within the room and realising his arms were now bound to each side of the chair. He tugged half-heartedly, too weak to properly try and escape, before his eyes widened as he saw the ragged, torn skin of his wrists where the wires had shredded his flesh. His eyes flicked upwards to James, though the figure seemed to be shimmering now, as though he was some kind of a mirage. Q shook his head, tears welling in his eyes as Bond evaporated into the darkness. He opened his mouth to call him back but quiet, echoing laughter stopped him before he could.

"Ironic, really, to use your own drug against you. British made, hallucination serum. It's one of the most painful forms of torture, because it shows the prisoner the thing they most want to see, and then makes it disappear just when they're hopes have been raised."

Q's mouth hung open, realising now that Bond was not here, that no one was here, and this woman still held all the cards. His mind cleared somewhat, and a rage crushed the pity out of him, knowing he would have to rely on himself if he wanted to get free. He turned his head to where the voice had come from, and saw her standing in the corner, hidden in the shadows.

He licked his chapped lips and tried hard to focus on her, though his eyes were continually blurring from whatever had been done to them. "What do you want?"

"Oh, and there comes that good, old British strength," she hissed, and he heard now the faint huskiness of the Russian accent now appearing behind her well-executed British vowels. "I'll soon beat that out of you."

The threat was evident, but Q felt no fear this time, only further anger that she would torture him without giving him anything to defend himself with.

"You're a coward," he croaked, a fire blazing inside him now knowing that whatever he did, pain was inevitable. He might as well fight with words if he couldn't fight her with weapons.

"And you are an idiot to think _he _will come and save you. You speak of cowards, but there is no bigger one than him. That man has more vanity and ego than any one person should ever possess."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

Her lunge was feline, like a jaguar bursting from the darkness to claim her prey. She clawed his face with sharp talons and then wrapped her incredibly strong hand around his neck, lifting him off the seat as far as she could, the chains bound tight around his arms now digging into already bloody skin.

"_You don't know?_" she shrieked, teeth bared like white knives. "James Bond is a double-crossing, selfish, cruel bastard, and you will not lie to me where he is concerned! Do you understand?"

Q had no option but to nod awkwardly, sighing heavily when he was released and dropped back into his seat. This woman, he now reasoned, was completely unhinged, and more worryingly, had some obsessive vendetta against Bond. It was astounding that, when tied to a chair and having been tortured for hours now with no sleep, he still felt more concerned for his agent than he did for himself. It would have been laughable if he had the energy to raise a smile.

Silence descended like thick smog, and Q watched her pacing the length of the darkening room, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. He had no clue what connection Bond and her shared, nor why she hated him with such vehemence, but he did know that 007 had to stay as far away from her as possible. He had no idea if she was working alone, or what her motive was, or even where he was. The sky was dark outside from the one solitary window at the back of the empty room, and he had been unconscious from the time he had been taken from his flat to the time he had arrived here. Maybe he could talk himself out of this mess, but he knew now that James coming in all guns blazing would only make the situation worse, and likely get them both killed.

As if sensing his thoughts, the woman turned to give him a surprisingly gleeful smile, and advanced forward with such speed that Q tilted back in his chair to try and get away from her. She placed her hands on his and leaned her face close to his, blue eyes shining as her nose touched his gently for a moment.

"Do you know, I think 007 needs a little incentive to come and visit us. It's time we brought the dog to heal."

~oOo~

He was sitting in a coffee shop, hidden in the darkest alcove, when his phone suddenly vibrated on the glass table. He had been deep in thought, contemplating contacting M for further information on Q, desperate to know exactly what had happened after he had left his apartment, when he received the message. It flashed up on the screen from an unknown number, and he quickly traced it using software Q had installed, making sure the message contained no virus which would download all his files to the recipient or begin tracking his location. But after opening the message, he almost wished it had been something as simple as a hacker wanting intel.

Before him was a video, completely untraceable except from the location it was taken from – a warehouse outside of Moscow. He could see, even before he pressed play, that it was Q. His thumb shook visibly as it lingered over the button, willing himself to press it but unable to raise the courage to do so. What if he was dead by now? What if this video showed him dying or screaming in pain?

His stomach churned with fear and anger, knotting and twisting into a sickening ball, before finally deciding the torture of indecision was worse than knowing what he was up against. With a stuttering breath, he pressed play, and watched as Q suddenly flashed onto his screen, looking paler than he had ever been, bloody and terrified. It was more horrific than he could have ever imagined.

"Bond... James," Q began in the most terrifyingly quiet voice imaginable. "I have been taken to an empty warehouse 30 miles to the north of Moscow, and am now awaiting... am now... awaiting... _execution_. If you value my life, you will come immediately to this location by tonight. If not... then at 1 a.m... I will be killed."

At this, Bond had no choice but to pause the video, acid bile rising in his throat as he observed the quiver of Q's lips, the raw fear in his eyes. How had this happened? How had he allowed this to happen? Bond knew that Q wouldn't be able to hold out much longer, not after what they had so obviously done to him. And if the warning was sincere, then Q would be dead by tonight. 1 am. He had six hours, and then it would be too late.

With this in mind, he forced himself to play the remaining few seconds, no matter how sick it made him feel.

"Please, James, I need you. I wouldn't be asking this of you if there was any-" Q suddenly broke off as his eyes rolled back into his head and his back arched so violently that he screamed in pain. His skin went a deathly shade of white and his lips drained of colour. The last thing he saw was Q's shaking body slump back into the chair before the video was cut off, and an address lit up an entirely black background.

For a moment, all James could do was stare, numbly, at the white letters on the screen, showing him the exact location where Q now lay dead, or at least unconscious. Then, as his stomach lurched, he shoved the phone away from him and placed a hand over his mouth. His skin felt hot and clammy and his insides were quivering with fear. What had they done to him? What the hell had they done to him?

Bond looked around the room, half expecting the perpetrator to be sitting somewhere nearby, sneering at his obviously petrified reaction. He had never felt so scared for another person before, not even when Vesper had died or M had been in danger. Because both those women had done their fair share of bad things – they were essentially honourable and decent human beings, but they had made stupid decisions which had cost lives and endangered innocent people. But Q? Q had done nothing to deserve this. He _was _the innocent civilian, and certainly not worthy of such a heinous punishment.

It was in that moment that he knew he needed help. If he only had six hours, he was going to need every scrap of information he could get, and there was only one person who knew enough about Moscow to be of any use. Grabbing his mobile and gulping down the trepidation rising in his throat, he scrolled through an endless contacts list until he came to the name he wanted.

It took until the last ring for her to pick up, just as always. She had never been one to appear too keen.

"Why, James, it has been a very long time," came a deep, powerful voice down the line.

Bond bowed his head lower beneath the leather seat, making sure no one could overhear their conversation. The last thing he wanted was any of his other friends being killed as well.

"Hasn't it just, and unfortunately though probably quite predictably, I'm not calling for a catch-up," he replied, trying to keep the ice from his tone but failing. He was really too on-edge to be making any kind of conversation, but he didn't have the time to calm down. He had to start planning things now.

"Predictable, yes, but not unfortunate. Any excuse to hear your charming voice is worth the price."

James chuckled at the evident sarcasm and rubbed his tired eyes. When had he last slept properly? "Look, Ana, there's no easy way of saying this. I need a favour, and you're the only person I can trust to help."


	4. Chapter 4

Ana Mekovich closed her black umbrella before entering the small, discreet lobby with a sweep of her wool cape. Her eyes were darker than he remembered them, and her hair greyer as well. She looked much older and much wearier, but still with that annoyed little crease between her brows that she had always worn. And while James was by no means relaxed as he sat on one of the plush couches dotted around the rich, oval room, he did feel comforted that she had actually turned up. Ana was one of his oldest acquaintances, but she was by no means reliable.

"Good evening, Mr. Bond," she said with a coy smile, allowing him to kiss her wrinkled, skeletal hand before sitting opposite him.

"Good evening, Miss. Mekovich," he replied, feigning a smile but desperate to get past their usual forced pleasantries. He noticed her bristling in front of him and wondered how long it had been since they had last spoke properly.

"9 years," she said as though she could read his mind, and he whistled quietly to himself, shocked at how drastically things had changed since then. He was a completely different person. They both were, it seemed.

"I heard about M – a fine woman, if somewhat superior. A bit like yourself in that respect. Probably why she chose you."

Bond nodded, his mind far away on the outskirts of Moscow, deep in the heart of an abandoned warehouse.

"I also heard that you went a bit... AWOL, shall we say?"

This brought him back to reality. He was certain that while he didn't trust Mallory, he would never have revealed such sensitive information. Then again, Ana was as much a British agent as M, a cold-war veteran and a hero in her own right. He had heard countless tales about M and Ana back in the day, two female spies renowned for their ruthlessness. That and their smiles. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did that she had found out about his 'escapade'.

"I had to go deep undercover, yes."

"No, James. You went off the rails and ended up killing an innocent. That's the loosest term of 'deep undercover' I have ever heard."

"We're not here to talk about me," he snapped, and received nervous glances from the barman over in the opposite corner. He responded with a steely glare.

Ana shrugged and pulled her cape tighter around her frail shoulders. He didn't like to see her so sunken and tired, because as selfish as it sounded, it just reminded him of how old he was getting as well. He probably looked just as tired and haggard as she did, only without the deep red lipstick.

"What are we here to talk about then? You said you could trust me, James, but so far you have barely said two words to me. What's happened?"

James sighed and leaned in closer, his strong hands clasped tightly together on his knees. "My quartermaster is being held somewhere outside of Moscow. I know it's because of me, that much is obvious, but I need more information."

"Like?"

"Like, who would use an abandoned warehouse outside of the capital to take a secret agent to?"

There was a pause as Ana contemplated this, before finally saying, "No one."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. I know every gang, every criminal, every double agent working in Russia, and I can tell you now that none of them would use an empty warehouse. The petty criminals, only interested in bloodshed, would use somewhere in the actual city – they're too lazy to travel any great distance. And those who have more imagination with their means of torture will stay at the very heart of Moscow because they have the money to stay hidden right in front of everyone's noses. The Russians like to keep their business, criminal or otherwise, in the capital, it is just the way they work. You said it was outside of Moscow?"

Bond held out his phone to show her the location and watched as the crease between her brows deepened. "Whoever they are, they're choosing somewhere far enough away to stop any random stranger finding them, but close enough for you to go. They want you there."

"I know."

"Will you go?"

"I have to," he replied immediately, lifting his head slightly to reveal desperate blue eyes. Ana had never seen him so afraid before.

"And are you going because he's your colleague and he needs you, or because he's a friend and _you _need _him_?" she enquired, and he had no choice but to smile, knowing that there was no secret he could hide from her. She had been as much of a maternal figure as M had been, and he owed a great deal to her.

"Both," he replied, turning his mobile in his bitterly cold hands. He felt numb, though he couldn't pretend it was because of the freezing weather.

Ana nodded, checked her own phone and then stood up suddenly. "I'm sorry I can't be of more use. I have no idea who you are dealing with, or why they need you there. But you must prepare yourself. If they want you to go, it's because they're planning a show and they need an audience. It won't be pretty."

He let her words sink in before standing himself. "I don't have another choice."

"No, I don't think you do. Good luck, James. You might not be able to save yourself, but perhaps you can save him."

"That's the plan," he said quietly, already resigned to the fact that he would do whatever it took to save Q, even if he ended up dead in the process.

They shook hands, an awkward gesture that felt wrong and uncomfortable. He wanted to hug her, feel her bony arms around him and have her stroke his hair like she had done when he was younger. He remembered a time long ago now, sitting in M's office, completely distraught after seeing three other agents die in front of him, and M had poured him a large drink and Ana had held him. For a Russian, she was a surprisingly warm woman.

"Goodbye," he said as the gilt-edged door was opened for her and a chill blast of air came hurtling towards him. She didn't reply, perhaps because the wind was too loud or perhaps because she had always hated goodbyes, and instead pulled on her earmuffs and ventured out into the snow, not even turning to look back at him one last time.

Some things never change, he thought as he pulled on his coat and left by the same door, going in the opposite direction she had taken.

~oOo~

Q tried not to whimper as the intensity of the drip flowing into his left arm was increased. He watched the clear fluid running faster into his veins and immediately felt a sick ache in the pit of his stomach. He was still working out the exact drug they were using, but he knew the kind roughly. It was highly addictive and highly toxic – lethal if given the right dose, or the wrong dose, depending on your perspective. The beauty of the drug was that if the body was cut off from it completely, then the subjects nervous system would shut down in pure shock. However, if the drug continued to build up in the system, then the subject would die anyway. No matter what happened now, he wasn't getting out of this alive, and he only wished he hadn't been forced to make that video for Bond.

"He won't come. You know that, don't you?" he said, his mouth now so dry that the words were just noises drifting from his open mouth, ghosts of thoughts he wanted to say aloud. He was becoming too tired and too in agony to even think, and it would only be a matter of time before everything ended. He almost couldn't wait.

The woman turned on her scarlet heel, lips parted in a malicious smile, and gripped the arm which was having toxins pumped into it. The shrill scream he let out made them both flinch.

"He will come, especially after how you pleaded with him. We both know Bond has a heart, and damaged and bruised as it is, it continues to beat frantically for his precious Q. Whether he loves you or not is irrelevant – he cares enough to save you, and that's all that matters. He'll be here at 1, and then we can begin."

Q gulped down what little saliva he could create and followed her as she paced the concrete floor, heels clacking and echoing down to meet him. The air had turned even colder now darkness had descended, and he could see his breathe curling up to the iron roof like smoke. He was either going to die from pneumonia or the drug or sheer exhaustion, and he didn't imagine any of them being particularly quick or painless deaths.

"How do you know him so well?" he asked, more to distract her from the impending hour than anything else. He wanted her off-guard if Bond did decide to burst in on them – maybe he at least stood a chance that way.

She continued to pace, though her steps had slowed considerably, and she fished around in her wool pocket for something. When her bony hand retrieved the object, it shone beneath the harsh, single light between her thumb and index finger.

"A... ring..." Q whispered, his eyes trying to focus on the small round piece of metal between her fingers. He didn't want to believe it, didn't want to think this woman had been so close to Bond, so close he had fallen for her. He couldn't believe that. She laughed, a genuine laugh which unnerved him more than the spiteful chuckles he had heard her emit before now.

"A ring? I am at least twenty years his senior, boy, and I wouldn't touch him if you paid me! _This_... _this _is a _bullet_. The bullet they removed from my nephew when he was shot down in a busy street in the centre of Moscow."

Q studied it closer and realised it was, indeed, a bullet, though what make he couldn't work out from this damage that had been done to his eyes from the acid. He could barely see a thing anyway without his glasses.

"I don't understand-"

"No, you wouldn't," she interjected, now striding towards him with a purpose unclear to them both. "This bullet killed my nephew – it went through his back and lodged in his heart. I happened to know the pathologist, so I was able to... borrow it... as a keepsake, and therefore tell the exact make of the bullet – and who had shot him. Do you know what type of bullet this is, Q?"

He shook his head, though his mind was now slowly piecing things together, and his heart began to sink as realisation hit him.

"This is a British, custom-made bullet. You helped to design it, I believe. You helped to design the bullet that killed my boy. And do you know who fired the weapon which sent this shooting into him? I bet you can guess now, can't you? You probably understand everything – such a clever boy."

Q looked from the bullet to her, just making out a single tear rolling down her sunken cheek. "James Bond," he said, and he saw her nod.

"Yes. James Bond, double-O agent to the British Secret Service, went into Moscow to track down a rogue agent, and killed my nephew instead. And now it's my turn, because I may not be without sin or blemish, but that boy was an innocent, and he deserves _justice_."


	5. Chapter 5

_This is a bit of a filler chapter – mainly because I have had a ridiculously busy week – but the next chapter is almost finished so you won't have long to wait!_

As a child, he had loved the snow. His rural Highland home had afforded him some of the best views in the world, with snow-iced mountains and a white quilt blanketing an entire landscape. His father would take him out for walks around the ground, his feet disappearing beneath the inches of thick, pure white snow. He used to follow in his father's footsteps, literally, jumping from one set of prints to the next, attempting to copy his father's confident stride while Kincade chuckled by the back door, watching them both with pride.

It had been a long time since James had thought about those times – his childhood consisted of memories he cherished and would not think of, and ghosts of his parents' faces which he dared not remember. It brought back to him a time of family and warmth and a closeness he had never experienced since. The secret service gave him no opportunity to trust anyone, and the few mistakes he had made in putting faith in certain individuals had now hardened him to everyone. He hated his job for that, he hated M for that. His mother had told him love did not make you vulnerable, and before her death, he had believed her. He had believed anything that woman said. He had loved her unconditionally, loved her smile and her arms around him and the deep, soulful voice which would sing him to sleep. God, he had never loved anyone as much as he had loved her and his father. And then they were gone. Dead and buried and long forgotten by everyone. The dead left no marks except on those they had left behind, and even those fade. That thought had made him a bitter man, their deaths had made him cold, and all the deaths he had caused and witnessed since then had just deepened his resentment.

He breathed out, his eyes following the curl of breath as it circled upwards towards the ceiling of his car. The windows were down, the chill air cutting through his suit jacket and shirt, piercing his mind and numbing his bones. He liked the cold, he liked the fact it froze his body and his thoughts instantly, unlike alcohol, which often took three bottles to have the same effect. He liked to feel numb – it offered a clarity his mind sometimes needed, especially when someone he knew was in danger. The car veered round another sharp bend and James struggled to regain control on the icy road, his strong hands gripping the wheel as he pushed hard on the brakes. His heart was racing as he continued on, plunging the car into further darkness, switching the headlights off as the warehouse suddenly came into view. His phone was in his pocket, but he knew they wouldn't make contact again. They didn't need to. He was always going to come – they had never given him a choice.

He pulled the car up beside the road, a good few metres from the concrete building but not far enough away that he couldn't make a quick escape. Q would be in a bad way, if he wasn't dead already, and they wouldn't let them leave without a fight.

There were two guns in the boot, and his personalised gun tucked into the inside of his jacket. He didn't need more than that, no matter how many he would be faced with once he was inside. He would be walking into a trap, and being laden down with weapons wasn't going to save him any more than if he had nothing. With this in mind, he only took one gun from the boot, deciding that if by some miracle they both made it to the car alive, he was going to need another gun to make sure they could get away safely without further attack.

The night air had now dropped below freezing, and Bond desperately wished he had brought his wool coat with him, despite the impracticalities of such a garment when trying to dodge out of the way of a bullet. His breath was steaming now, his teeth chattering behind tightly pressed lips, fingers wrapped around the handle of his gun. The cold had brought his nerves alive, every hair on the back of his neck bolt upright, goosebumps peppering tanned, coarse skin. He had never felt more alert as he cautiously made his way round the side of the building, his vision obscured by darkness, and stopped outside the only door. Behind it, he was certain, was Q. And whether they had kept him alive or not, James knew he had to get him out. He had to get him back to Britain, back home, so his family could grieve for him. Did he even have a family?

The thought shocked him and his hand wavered momentarily, imagining a mother and father, siblings, friends, maybe a girlfriend or boyfriend waiting patiently back at home for him. What if they had been expecting him back yesterday, or last week? What if an official officer of the secret service had been sent round to their house to inform them Q was unlikely going to be returning home alive? He could picture the shock, the denial, the sheer, raw pain on each unfamiliar face as they were told their boy was dead, just as he had felt with his parents. He blinked, inhaled sharp, cold air, and braced himself for what he might be walking into.

The door buckled beneath the sudden intensity of his foot as it slammed into it, forcing the door from its hinges and hitting the floor with a bang which sounded like thunder in the hollow building. He entered quickly, gun raised, eyes darting around the room until he found the pool of blood, the chair, and Q half-unconscious, wrists bound to the wooden arms and a drip hooked up to the crease in his elbow. He could do nothing but stare at the off-white colour of his skin, the dark stubble covering his chin and cheeks, the dark shadows beneath closed eyes. He felt his grip loosen and his arm lower as he took a step towards him, forgetting completely the danger they were both in. He looked worse than James could ever have anticipated – he looked dead, despite the subtle rise and fall of his partially bare chest.

But before he could get any closer, his vision was blurred by every light in the warehouse suddenly turning on, and James was back to being 007, finger on the trigger, ready to kill anyone he saw. He blinked rapidly, spinning round with gritted teeth, dying to shoot the person who had done this to his quartermaster, and was met with... nothing. No one. The light switch was right by the door, and there was no one there. He glanced back at Q, knowing that if he didn't get him medical attention soon he would more than likely die, and ached to be nearer him, a hand on his even if it was just to reassure him. But there was no way he could ensure his safety with a madman still at large somewhere nearby, and so with a reluctant heart, James turned back to the open doorway, and slipped back out into the night, determined to kill the bastard who had hurt his friend.


	6. Chapter 6

_**I have no excuse for not writing in 2 months, except perhaps that painful and near-paralysing writer's block has been plaguing me for weeks now. I'm so sorry for having left this with such a cliffhanger and I will try my hardest to get it finished completely as quickly as I can. Thank you all for following thus far and reviewing – it really does mean a lot! Hope you enjoy x**_

It was the drugs, he told himself. B19-Z – and he was fairly certain that's what it was now - was designed to manipulate the mind, its sole purpose was to create a series of delusions so real the victim would go insane with either hope or despair. There was no way James was here, no way he would have been stupid or reckless enough as to come alone. Not even he was that imbecilic. But he had recognised the gun – the gun specially made by Q himself, a parting gift for the infamous Bond. How long had he slaved over it, desperate to impress the man he had only read about in "classified" files? He knew every inch of it, every line and curve. It was a masterpiece of skill and technology, and the man who had stood in the doorway only moments ago had been carrying it. But it wasn't James. His only prayer was that it wasn't James, and he would repeat it over and over again until it came true.

Q could feel the liquid toxin curdling his blood and burning through his skin like hot wax. He had broken out into a cold sweat, there was blood dripping from a wound to his thigh, and his lips had cracked from dehydration and cold. He didn't have long. If the drug didn't kill him, then pneumonia or loss of blood would. It was only a matter of time, and he was appalled at all the things he regretted doing... and not doing, in his life.

But perhaps the one thing he didn't regret was meeting James. He couldn't deny that the double-0 agent had put him in danger on more than one occasion – but he didn't regret it. They were a team, and if one part of that team was in trouble, the other part would come to the rescue. Q had saved James enough times to know the rules, and despite that flicker of hope within himself praying James would save him now, he knew it was impossible. It was too big a risk. James didn't know who he was dealing with, and Q was only one of many bright young twenty-somethings with a passion for computer coding and technological security. He wouldn't be missed – he was replaceable. But James? James Bond was more legend than man, the biggest asset Britain had. They couldn't risk losing him, but they could risk Q.

The pain suddenly overwhelmed him – not from the drug – but from the sheer agony of knowing he would die alone, a nobody. There was no one left to miss him, no one to come to his funeral, no one to read a eulogy or even lay a few flowers by the grave. Some administrative assistant would quickly plan it all out, Mallory would send a bouquet, and that would be that. His life over, all his work finished, and no one to mourn his passing.

The sob that escaped choked him and he bit down hard on his lower lip to stop himself before he was humiliated further. God, he was pathetic. He was still an agent, still part of Her Majesty's Secret Service, and yet here he was, crying like a child over the one thing he should have expected to happen eventually. But then, he wasn't crying over the fact he was about to die. That didn't matter to him, that was inevitable. But dying with no one to miss him? It hurt, it tore at him, and he kept coming back to the same, singular, agonising thought over and over again. James. The only man he had ever gotten even remotely close to. They had talked and laughed and shared memories that Q had never experienced with anyone else. James had travelled across the globe with Q sat in his comfortable chair in London, chatting back and forth as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world. Was it more than that? How could Q possibly tell, when James was the biggest enigma he had ever seen? James Bond was the one code Q had never been able to crack, and that was the truth of it. That's what made him so appealing – he was completely immune to anything and everything Q threw at him, and it was wonderful to be the normal one for a change.

And now, the one time he needed him more than ever, he couldn't be here. He couldn't swagger in wearing an exquisitely tailored suit and that chip on his shoulder he never could shake off. He was gone, probably back in England by now, and Q was alone.

"James…" he whispered, almost as though saying the name aloud might just conjure him up from thin air. God, just to see his face one last time. Just to say goodbye would be enough. He could die at peace then. He just wanted to see him one, last time.

~oOo~

The night was alive – that was the only way James could describe it. The shades of black seemed to merge before his eyes, the very air splintering from the cold. He had circled the entire warehouse twice now, and despite knowing they could be standing right in front of him, he had a worrying feeling that this was exactly where they wanted him to be. Not because they were about to execute him, but because if he was out here… then there was no one inside the warehouse protecting Q…

His stomach dropped, his eyes widening in disbelief at how utterly stupid he had been. And then his finger was curled around the trigger, like the agent he had and always would be, and stalked back towards the warehouse door. He could see the streak of white light cutting through the darkness like a blade, and he had to blink repeatedly to adjust his eyes to the brightness. He was walking into a trap. All of this, everything he had done so far, every action and thought, had been pre-designed for this exact moment. Walking inside that warehouse would almost certainly kill him. But that was all right, that he could accept, as long as Q was freed. If he could manage that, then he would have won, and he could die happy.

His footsteps sounded hollow on the concrete floor, but they already knew he was here, even before he had entered the warehouse. They were watching him right now, he could feel their eyes on him as he crossed the room slowly, gun raised, eyes sweeping the room from wall to wall and finding nothing. All he could see was Q, now so still that for a second James thought… he actually thought…

And then he coughed. Just a single, rasping splutter which had him doubled over, his fists clenching through the pain, his eyes tightly shut. And that was it. James couldn't have given a toss had the entire Russian Secret Service crashed through the roof and shot them both dead. In that second, James had nothing on his mind other than getting to Q, holding his hand, being there by his side to stop the pain.

He got to him in under two strides, his gun now lowered despite the fact they were likely both sitting targets, and his hand immediately went to Q's neck. He checked for a pulse which was impossibly weak, and ignored how truly ill he looked. His eyes slid over every inch of him, examining the wound to his thigh, the red rings around his eyes, and finally landing on the dark blue veins stretching out from the thin plastic tubing embedded in his skin.

"Please… don't…"

James looked up to see Q staring at him, his eyes dead despite the pleading desperation in his voice. He moved his hand from the drip and nodded uncertainly.

"What can I do?"

The question was so quiet, so gentle for Bond that Q had to smile. He had never heard him speak so softly before.

"I'm too far gone. There's no hope, no point-"

"There's every point," James immediately interrupted. He wasn't about to give up on his friend, even if he had given up on himself.

"The drug is turning to my vital organs to soup as we speak. My entire body is going to shut down in about ten minutes…"

"Plenty of time then. We'll just take it out-"

"And if you do, my nervous system won't be able to cope with going cold turkey, and I will go into shock, possibly causing either a stroke or a heart attack. As a consequence, I'll either end up in paralysed, in a coma, or I'll have a secondary heart-attack which will be fatal."

They regarded each other, James desperately trying to think of another solution to avoid either of the two scenarios Q had just painted for him in horrifying detail, but realising by his friend's expression that there was nothing that could be done for him now. He still didn't regret coming.

"Tell me what to do, then."

Q was silent for a moment, and James almost wondered whether he hadn't heard him, when he finally said:

"Leave. They want you dead, James. They want you to suffer, and I won't watch that happen. Please, do me this favour at least. Don't torture me more than I already have been."

There were tears in his eyes, and James ached to reach out and brush them off his porcelain white skin, but the pain would have been too much for either of them to bear. He couldn't do it, he couldn't take the final step, not when he was about to lose him any second.

"We need more time," he whispered, his voice quivering.

Q smiled and raised his head as much as he could before the pain consumed him completely. "We had enough to know… the important things… Be bloody grateful, for once."

It was so like the old Q that James laughed, ignoring the lump in his throat for just a little bit longer. He didn't want Q to see how much this was affecting him, not when he was so perilously close to the end now. He could see death's shadow creeping across the floor, feel its dark presence just as he had felt it looming over him so many times before. He should have taken his place. He should have come sooner. He should have-

"So nice of you to join us, James."

He saw the pain in Q's eyes as confusion overwhelmed him. He knew that voice, could recognise it anywhere. But why was she here? Had she followed him? Had she tried to save him?

Her face said it all. And even if she had worn her usual, poker face, the gun would have been enough for him to go by.

She had always told him to keep his friends close – perhaps he should have paid more attention to that warning. But it was too late now to go back and change things.

He was going to die tonight, and Ana Mekovich was going to be the one to kill him.


End file.
